Instead
by Djamilla M
Summary: Quid pro quo. Spike's telling secrets and so is Faye, stranded on the Bebop with no air conditioning, no lights, no smokes, and, strangest of all, no regrets. SF


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Cowboy Bebop. All I own is a meager two dollars which I plan on spending on my lunch. Needless to say, I can't even afford a lawyer.

**Instead**

It had been dark, of course. So dark he couldn't even really trace the outlines of the sofa, the unlit lampshade, the large fan whirring silently in the corner. And it was hot, so much so that he'd shrugged off the blanket Jet had forced on him and lay there sweating on the floor, listening to the sound of Faye's deep slow breathing above him and the doggie snorts coming from under the coffee table.

He was drifting when he heard Faye give a little shudder and wake abruptly, groaning.

"Time is it?" she grunted groggily, and he heard the squeak of plastic against her skin as she shifted on the couch.

"I don't know."

"Get off your lazy ass and check the clock then, for fuck's sake."

"It's too dark."

"Turn on the lights."

"Went out a while ago," he informed her, pressing his cheek firmly on the floor.

"Then why the hell isn't Jet fixing them?"

"Nipped down to the nearest planet to get some food."

"Oh, right. He left us. In the dark. To sweat it out when I've got a broken wrist and you've got about two thousand bullets in your arm."

"Give him a break, Valentine; he was gone when we got here. He thought we might be hungry when we got back. Of course, he might not even give us any food once he's found out the bounty got away. Never mind that it was your fault."

No explosion. Perhaps she was too tired, which he found rather surprising. Then:

"Haven't we even got any flashlights?"

"Jet took them."

"Cigarettes?"

"All out."

"First-aid kits?"

He smirked in the dark, even though she couldn't see him. "Why, Romany? Want me to treat your boo-boo?"

"Shut the fuck up, Spike."

His name was punctuated by the small whine of plastic as she slid her leg down from the couch, followed almost immediately by a sharp, burning sting as she kicked him in the injured arm. He jerked instantly in response.

"The fuck, Faye?" he yelped, jolted up into a sitting position, cradled his arm. "The hell did you do that for?"

"Just be glad I wasn't wearing heels," she replied smugly.

"You fucking kook, you made the goddamned wound… God!"

"And that's exactly why I was asking whether or not we have any first-aid kits."

"Shit, Faye, you know how long it takes for one of these wounds to close?"

"About a few minutes, in my case. Give or take an hour."

"Well, it's not the same for me, goddammit!"

"Yeah, you're a baby and I'm not."

"You talk pretty big considering one of these bullets in my fucking shoulder is yours," he hissed, punching her ankle. "Who shot me in the goddamn middle of a fight, huh?"

"Ow! The lights were off!"

"Well, maybe your _old age_ is catching up to you, since all the lights were on at the time!"

"Who the fuck was showing off with that hot shit martial arts anyway? I couldn't even get a clear shot at him when you were waving your arms around like a fucking maniac!"

"And so you shot me instead?"

"No, I shot him! And then you moved in my way!"

"Well, thanks a lot for not warning me!"

"You think I could when I already pulled the fucking trigger, and you were just there, dancing in front of him like a goddamned clown-turned-ballerina?"

"You didn't say anything!"

"What the fuck was I supposed to say, 'oh, there's a bullet heading his way so don't just walk right in front of him unless you might get hit'?"

"What was the matter with you? Did you go fucking blind?"

"As if you didn't!"

"I didn't!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

There was silence as both of them panted for breath, glaring, unseeing, into the dark. Spike was becoming slowly aware that the sound of Ein was gone. The coward had probably gone into hiding and left him alone with the hellion.

"I know how you feel, Ein," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

"What?"

"Nothing," he shot back. Dammit, he needed a cigarette.

Silence again. And then Faye moved, wincing slightly when her injury was jostled.

"You know, this isn't getting us anywhere."

He didn't bother answering.

She was moving closer, reaching to touch where she thought his arm might be, and her fingers found his middle instead. He drew in a sharp breath when her fingertips skimmed his hip, and then over to the wound.

"Sorry," she muttered sheepishly. "Didn't Jet treat you before he left?"

He shook his head, realized what he was doing, and said, "No. I told you: gone when we got here. You were already asleep and I had to drag you in here. He left a message. Went out to get some supplies, be back in a few days if he got lucky. I got some time to clean you and me up a bit before the electricity went out."

She inhaled. "The bullets are still in there?"

"Three."

Fuck, his hands were shaking.

"God, Spike."

"You owe me a fucking apology for this, Valentine."

"Since when have I ever owed you anything?"

"Couple of times you ate my food and stole my blanket." He grinned. "Don't worry about it. Jet can treat it when he gets back."

She'd moved away. He could smell the scent of ripe strawberries retreating.

"A few days," she repeated his words. "A few days if he got lucky. Dammit, Spike, I know you've been shot thousands of times before but this is just stupid! You can't just sit around waiting for 'a few days' until Jet can treat that!"

"I know that."

"Then why…?"

He was silent for a few moments. "I can't push out the bullets with one hand."

"Then get a pair of fucking tweezers for God's sake!"

"You know what I'm saying."

She was quiet, incredulous. "You're saying you want me to treat you."

"I don't think we have a choice."

"I can't use my right hand."

"I can use mine, so we'll do it together."

"Why the hell did you let it close when you still had three bullets in you?"

"I fell asleep. I can't keep poking my finger in a goddamn fucking hole in my arm every few minutes when I've been running around all day."

Another silence, where she exhaled in frustration. And then he heard her move off the couch, ungracefully with her bandaged wrist, and she walked away with limping steps, carefully feeling her way through the room and nudging his legs aside.

"Where the hell does Jet keep the first-aid kits?"

And he smiled.

* * *

The heat was almost unbearable as she made her way towards the kitchen, hit her when she walked past the slow whirring of the engines. Space had never gotten this hot before, she thought grumpily, shoving away her hair from her face. Were they even in space anymore, or just heading towards the goddamned sun? Her neck and face felt sticky and damp when she felt them with her free hand. 

God, she hated Jet.

Hated him for sticking her with that son of a bitch, Spike.

She rummaged in a drawer, found what felt like a light. She found the on switch and flicked it, the glow weak and pale white in the dim; the battery was almost dead. She rummaged for the first-aid kits, found one unopened. She tucked it under her arm and made her way back to the living room.

Faye saw that he'd moved onto the couch, lit a match, was holding it to a candle he'd somehow found amidst all the junk in the room. He looked up when she entered, and in the faint glow of the combined lights she could see that his brown eyes were tired.

But he still grinned that same stupid grin she hated.

She plopped down the first-aid kit on the table.

"Shirt off, cowboy."

She helped him unbutton it, tossed it behind her.

"I'm going to have to go against the rules here, Spike. I'm taking off the bandage."

He'd leaned back, watching her. "Do what you want."

The wound didn't look so bad when she unwrapped the bandage, but it immediately released a warm sticky flow of blood over her fingers. She almost drew back from the metallic smell, but she gritted her teeth and started, snapping on some gloves before pressing her fingers into the wound.

"How to hell did you fall asleep with this, Spike?"

"I'm used to it."

"I… see." And she thought she did.

He was still watching her, watching her green eyes, her hands, steady but cold. Even in the heat.

"Have we got any forceps?"

"Like the ones Jet uses to pluck his hair?"

She grimaced. "He plucks his hair when he's already bald?"

His smile met her stare. "Whoever said anything about his head hair? And then…" his voice lowered dramatically, "who knows, one day you just might find out that I use them too…"

She pinched him and got a satisfactory wince.

"Forceps."

"Under the couch."

She didn't even bother asking, not even sure whether she wanted to know. If what Spike had been saying about Jet had been true… all the better that she _didn't _know. She lifted the arm first, examined the exit wound.

"You've only got one bullet."

"Guess whose," he returned amicably.

Her glare completed the sentence: 'I hate you.'

"And so do I," he muttered.

She ignored that, ignored even the sharp hiss of breath when she twisted the forceps, searching.

"Christ, Faye."

"Can't help it. You were the one who lied about having three bullets in your arm. You made me worry there for a second. And I never… ever… intend… to worry about you again." Each word was accompanied by a sharp jab with the forceps.

He groaned. "Fuck you, Faye."

"Fuck you, too."

She found it finally, the steel of the forceps hit metal, and she drew it out, tossed it away. "I'm going to put pressure on it so the blood vessels can close. That'll stop the bleeding." Her eyes found his. "That okay?"

He smiled, although it was pained. "Fine. They were already closed before you kicked it, anyway."

She winced, grasping his arm just above the wound in a tight grip. "You'll have to stop bringing that up every goddamned time we have a conversation, Spike." And she squeezed.

It was sudden. And it hurt like hell. His body arched upward as stars exploded in front of his eyes, and he came back panting for breath.

"Hell!"

"Ah… Guess that's not tight enough."

More blood. She ignored it, although the feeling of it on her hands and arms were making her feel nauseous. Queasy. And the sight of his face, eyes squeezed shut and breathing harsh, was making her feel… itchy. Antsy. Needy.

She forced the thought away.

"Here, hold this."

It was a few seconds before he obeyed, grimacing when he put his hand over hers, in the same place above the wound. She pulled her hand away, picked up a bandage and pressed into her palm. And then she held it to the wound, took a deep breath, and pushed.

He flinched again, as expected, but not as violently. Rather, he just grimaced and held it in.

"Are you okay?"

Spike looked up, saw her gaze focused on him.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He managed a grin. "But not at my best."

"How many times have you been shot anyway?" She was looking at him closely.

"I wouldn't know. Can't remember the first time I was shot. Comes when you're born into the syndicate. You come into the world a killer, and you leave the world a killer. And you'll be shot at least twenty times in between."

He'd let that slip out, so he avoided her stare.

But it fascinated her, made her itch again just to look at him.

She pressed harder.

"And what about Julia?"

"What about her?"

"She isn't part of the syndicate?"

"What do you mean?"

Faye sighed in frustration. He was either trying to act stupid, or was just as stupid as he was trying to act. She wasn't quite sure. Always hard to tell with this man. She caught the sudden scent of blood on him. Blood, sweat, and… ah, she didn't know what it was. She jerked harder on the wound, and he stiffened, glared at her.

"Hey! Do you want to fucking kill me?"

"What I want is some fucking answers. I want to know whether birds of a feather flock together." She rattled his arm, made him wince. "I want to know whether or not Julia was part of the syndicate you belonged in."

"Ok, ok! Jesus Christ! She wasn't! She was…" He stopped.

She watched his face for a minute, saw the flickering shadow on it, and decided not to press anymore.

"All right." She released the pressure, wiped away the blood gently lest the wound should open again, and bandaged it. "If it gets soaked through, just wrap another roll around it. And do it yourself this time." She tossed the gauge at him. "Here you go. I'm going back to sleep."

And she was. She'd already climbed onto the couch, blown out the candle and switched off the light when he caught hold of her wrist, tugged.

"Stay here."

His voice was soft, imploring.

Something inside her loosened at that, but she just sat, staring at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Stay." She heard some patting sounds on the floor. "Here. Sleep with me."

"_Excuse me?_" she repeated, skeptical. "Did you get shot in the head, too, Spike?"

"No, I just want…" He sighed. "I don't know what the hell I want." She was down before she knew it, his arms around her waist, and she'd tumbled into his lap like a little kitten.

And the scent of him again.

She jerked away. "Christ, put on your shirt, at least!"

"It's really hot."

"Then sleep alone!"

"I don't want to." He hadn't let go of her, had merely shifted his position so that his back rested against the couch, an arm around her waist and another around her neck and his nose buried in her hair. She could feel his warm breath on her scalp, could smell the taste of blood.

"Please, Spike. This isn't…"

"I'm not going to take advantage of you, Faye. Just sleep."

She was silent. Then, "I don't see why you wouldn't."

"Because you'd deserve more than that."

"I didn't know you thought that."

"I do." He laughed, but it was humorless. "You might go around wearing that tiny yellow… thing, Faye Valentine, and you might flaunt and flirt with thousands of different men in a single day, but you haven't sunk so low as to bringing them here with you."

"How do you know that?"

"I've never seen you do it." He snuggled closer. "And I've been keeping a very good watch on you, for a very long time."

* * *

They spent more than a few minutes like that. Spike wasn't quite sure how long. The lights were down, and there was absolutely no point in turning on a light just to go see the time when he felt content here. Hot, but in a good way sort of hot. Warm, maybe. Lukewarm. 

It was a while before she spoke, startling him. He'd thought she was asleep.

"Have you done… you know, it… with any other people… um, after Julia?"

He'd thought about it. But… "No."

She was squirming in his arms, searching for a good hold. He suppressed a shiver when her skin whispered against his as she reached around him and hooked an arm around his waist. He raised his uninjured arm, cradled her there.

"That makes you one hung up guy for an old girlfriend."

"She was more than that, Faye."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. True love, and all that."

"Have you ever loved someone?"

She shifted. "Maybe once, I thought I did. But that was before… everything."

Everything. Yes, the treatment. He remembered.

"Ah." He was quiet for a few seconds, but something spurred him on. "Julia… was the real thing, I thought."

"Couldn't have been the real thing if she's gone now, right?"

"So you believe that? Shit, destiny isn't everything. She might be gone… or she might not."

She squirmed again, and he realized he was tracing circles on her shoulder with his thumb. He blushed, pulled it away as unobtrusively as he could.

"You like mint, don't you?"

The question caught him off guard. "What?"

"Humor me. I can smell it on your breath."

"Um. Yeah, I do."

"I can also smell dog breath on you. Have you been so lonely for this Julia girl you've started kissing Ein? Or does Ein look like her?"

He grinned. Faye humor. He understood it.

"Julia was more beautiful than…" He stopped.

Strange that he could talk about Julia now. Strange that he could talk to Faye about it, here in this darkened room, with her holding onto him, and him holding onto her. Strange that he could suddenly feel so hot, because her scent was back, and her hair was velvety smooth against his arm.

"Except of course, if you've been using my toothbrush on Ein…"

It was a lousy attempt at a joke, but she laughed. "Stop that. How beautiful was she, really, this Julia?"

He considered for a moment. "The most beautiful woman in the world." He didn't notice the flicker of sadness that passed over her face and then disappear.

"Ok, let's make a deal." She sat halfway up, restrained when he put the arm that wasn't trapped between his thigh and her lower back around her. "I'll trade information for information. Quid pro quo. I'll answer your questions truthfully, you'll answer mine."

"I thought we were already doing that."

"This is just to make sure you aren't lying, Spike." She touched his jaw briefly, and that spot burned before she drew away. "Deal?"

He mulled it over. Grinned. "Deal."

* * *

"Craziest thing you've ever done?" 

Spike thought for a moment. His senses were so high, drunk on the feel of her. She'd removed her sweater, even, so she wore only a thin cotton shirt, and he could hardly think clearly. And he didn't _want_ to think clearly.

"A lot."

She laughed again.

"My turn." He reflected. "Craziest thing _you've _ever done."

Her answer was immediate. "Cryogenics."

He stopped. Looked at her. She was totally serious, her green eyes winking up at him. The candle had almost come to the end, flickering dully. He reached, curled a strand of hair around his finger. And dropped it, looked away.

"Your turn."

* * *

"Ever played strip poker?" 

"God no." He winked at her. She'd moved onto the far end of the couch, away from him, hugging a pillow. "But I'd certainly be willing to try it for you."

The pillow met his face was a satisfying thump.

* * *

"Would you ever go back to being a syndicate?" 

He looked up at her from where he'd been tracing patterns on the floor. "I already am one, Faye. I was born that way."

She watched him. "No," she said finally. "You aren't a syndicate. You're a bounty hunter. I want to know whether if it's going to be a choice of being a syndicate and being with Julia, or being a bounty hunter with Jet and Ed and…" she swallowed, "… and me."

The sincerity in her voice struck a nerve in him.

"I'm sorry, Faye," he said softly. "But you're only allowed one question. Quid pro quo. It's my turn."

She didn't ask again.

* * *

"Do you like me, Faye?" 

She started at the question, had already been drifting as she stared into nothingness. And when she looked at him, she could see the question, stark clear in his face.

"I try not to," she said softly. "But yes, I do. If it's not that obvious."

"Not very." A hoarse laugh. "But yes, it is quite obvious." Quiet, where they stood looking at each other.

"Come here, Faye." This time, there was no hesitation, no protest, when he wrapped her in his arms and rested his chin on her shoulder. "It's your turn."

She was silent for a very long moment, staring listlessly at the candlelight.

"Do you like _me_?"

"Yes." Ah, he'd said it. "I've always had a… you know… kind of small… thing… for you. A little crush on my part." He smiled. "But… it's not that obvious either, right?"

She laughed, a very small laugh. "No, it's not. And I do also have a 'small thing' for you. Although… I don't really know whether or not that's what I'm looking for." She sunk deeper into him. "I like taking care of myself."

"I know."

"But I feel safe here."

"I know." And so do I. "Can you sleep?"

"Right here? Yes, I think I can."

So warm. And the scent of blood had faded, lifeless now, replaced by her smell. Sweat, like his, but more pleasant. More feminine. He'd missed that, of course. True to his word, he hadn't slept with anyone but Julia. Ah, but for the first time, he was thinking about it, right here, right now.

Except, as he stared down at Faye, who didn't notice, he wasn't sure whether he could do it. Yes, yes, Faye deserved more than him. She deserved a decent man who wasn't chasing after ghosts with a phony eye and a big gun. She deserved someone who could protect her.

_I like taking care of myself_.

Until she found out how hard it was exactly to take care of anyone at all.

And they were both lulled into sleep, the quiet, the crackle of the candle's tiny flame, with her in his lap and his hands twined in her hair. Her hand on his bare chest, around his waist. A soft tiny second of peace before the light went out.

For the first time in years, Spike Spiegel didn't feel quite so alone. And neither did Faye.

At least they hadn't killed each other.

**End**

**A/N:**

**quid pro quo**: in Latin, favor for a favor, something for something; interestingly enough, the definition in mentions it as a legal type of sexual harassment. Although I prefer not to include that. Maybe in some other story, perhaps. But not here. Anyone who's seen or read the movie or book Silence of the Lambs will be familiar with this.

**cryogenics**: branch of physics concerned with very low temperatures. Basically, freezing. Anyone who knows about Faye will know that her past involved a lot of freezing. :p Also mentioned in one of the Artemis Fowl series.

:waves: Until next time, then!


End file.
